The thinnest of lines
by A Bleach-Drinking Hetalian
Summary: That which lies between life and death, reality and fantasy. Post Reichenbach, a maybe.


**_Entry XXX, x-xx-xx_**

_Sherlock had succeeded. He had succeeded in many things in his life- he left many an impact, made many lives for the better, and may or may not have even cared about any of it, or anything else that I may be able to list. I will not state the dark months that followed after his death; only that it was when Harry was contacted my Ms. Hudson was she able to pull herself beyond her habitual booze-hoarding and come to pull me out of the same. (Not to mention that when Mycroft had heard of it, he banned all liquor-selling to myself and mine. That helped more than I dare say.) I was not a man of the drink, besides the occasional brew, and I managed to find some semblance of strength- or the lack of it- to pull myself out of such habits, cold turkey._

_Half a year after, the clinic had hired me as a full doctor, but it wasn't the same. Without whatever Sherlock had wrought upon me, the limp in my leg, the stiffness in my shoulder, both had managed to return. They didn't entirely hinder my work, no, but I couldn't shake them off. Nor did it hinder my newfound hobby- the investigations Sherlock had always dragged me along to had shown me London's underbelly. It is with equal sadness at how the community suffers with the loss of it's greatest mind- none would doubt it, and many admit it, in the various writings and articles many newspapers and magazines have released on what, who, they thought the man was, what made him who he was, compelled him to do as he did._

_It's quite funny, really, but there was a conspiracy that Sherlock wasn't the mind, but I. Ask anyone who met him- because none truly knew him, not his brother, not I- it's balderdash._

_But they fail to see what was the truth that I found with working alongside one of the greatest minds to grace this time, if even I could grasp it in a semi-correct fashion: he was in it for the sport. The traces I saw for him caring, truly caring, about someone, something to do with this case can be counted on less than one hand, because this was as one would hunt. He detached himself. The prey, the case, the prowler, he, the rush, thrill, all he thought he wanted, needed. His behavior was never more bombastic than when encountered with a case that managed to last for a time- his favorite birthday, even, was the time when I revealed to him a triple-homicide, all doors locked. The look that had taken over his face was priceless. If only I'd a camera.._

_I will repeat this for all; no matter what the Media might say, he was a good man. It may be- have been- abnormal for a man to excite over crime, but he was on our side. He did nothing to orchestrate the crimes, I can honestly vouch. And if you cannot see the good he had managed while alive, you need glasses. I've come to realize he was on our side, the side that wasn't on Mycroft's._

_These thoughts plagued me for so long- they still do._

_It was when I happened upon a miss Mary Morstan that I found some reprise. It was at the clinic that we met, and it was she who had asked me on a date. Perplexed, I had accepted, and everything after was history. No, I didn't forget Sherlock, but Miss Morstan was a wonderful distraction. A blissful year passed. We had even planned to be wed- but before such occasion, days before, she died. Struck dead in the street by the same serial killer that had been raiding London's street for a time- and was later, himself, killed, by a woman he had attempted to attack. My second year without Sherlock him boded another mishappening._

_But if Sherlock had taught me anything, in his life, his death, it was that I could survive the death of others. The secret is to live for those who still need you. Live the life you were given in the way you were meant to. Find your own reason, since it will nary come to you of it's own accord._

_It is with such cliches that I leave on, after this brief hiatus, a permanent one. I thank each and every one of you who has ever viewed this blog. It's time I let my past behind me, and I intend fully to do so with it's closing._

_John Watson_

* * *

><p>It was by the grace of god, Watson knew, that he was even able to stay at 221B Baker street, on his monthly salary. He had refused to let another housemate take on the emptiness Sherlock had left; not to say that the Brit had done anything with Sherlock's belongings. No, he had let those be, letting them pile the walls and strew across the mantles and tables that he didn't directly need. The 'experiments' were the only thing John had taken care of, after his long, drawn out pity party. Ms. Hudson had refused to touch them.<p>

He sighed, gently shutting his laptop, and placing it on the table beside himself; speaking aloud, "I suppose I should get dinner started, than? Have a cuppa, maybe even." No, it wasn't the healthiest habit, but it wasn't the worst. "You're right, the tea would have gone cold by the time I got back.. there's no use making it before I've gone for supplies." The fridge was near empty, in any case, and he had put off shopping enough.

Slinging on his coat, the doctor limped past the doorway, cane clinking against the surface. "Ms. Hudson, I'll be off now!" He called, just in case.

The use of a cab would have been a wonderful relief to walking- as it was, he couldn't very well afford one on the willy-nilly, and the hellish trek to the nearest possible store tired him out enough to recline in an aisle found at random, where he pretended to gauge the wares it had to offer. Breath caught, he retrieved a basket (in all actuality, he was given one by a stranger, who he had made sure to thank), and then went though the tedious task of shopping. Giving a nasty look to the ring-it-yourself register, the former soldier directed himself to a human-run one, to make things much easier.

He had no choice but to limp home, paper bag nearly overfilled with cans and perishables, and all sorts of necessities. Until John got home, that was, to Baker Street, and saw the front door to his lodgings flung open; perplexed, he limped inside.

The dirty blond found himself cast into a hallway with a hysterical Ms. Hudson, babbling all sorts of who knew's and things the former soldier couldn't hope to decipher. Placing his spoils on a nearby table, to rung his cane on his arm, holding the landlady by her shoulders. "Ms. Hudson, are you all right? There wasn't a robbery, was there? What happened?" No, a small hope for any action hadn't been in his voice.

She only shook her head, pulling the dishcloth down. Her face was wrinkled somewhere between smiling and beside herself with tears. The older woman motioned towards the stairs, and John took off, limping as quickly as he could to the top.

What he saw made him stop.

Stare.

Fail to breath.

Murmur, "Sherlock..?" and say nothing else, barely acknowledging that he was no longer _standing_ in his doorway.

* * *

><p>And waking up. In his bed. The Brit could do little more than draw his knees to his chest, resting his head on the apex it created. It was another dream. John'd had them for a long time, and this must have been an occasion where he forgot his place, and his mind had to right it for him. Again.<p>

The soldier rubbed his forehead, sighing. He wouldn't get much more done now, he knew. The day was over, as far as his interests went. He'd probably go off about this all of it, wouldn't he?

John wandered into the kitchen, filling the kettle with water. He was turning on the heat, when something condescending happened.

"I already made some Tea, John, making more would be but a fruitless endeavor."

He jolted where he was, not daring to turn his head. What if it were an illusion? Good god, was he really that desperate?

"So tense.. I suppose this means you think I'm fake, when in fact, I'm here, in the flesh." A rustle. "I suppose you'll need proof, won't you?" John tried to remain stock-still. If this were an illusion, he would be able to wait it out. But illusions couldn't provide touch, could they? They couldn't rest their freezing fingers on his neck, could they? "Ah, and here's where you realize that I am, in fact, alive."

John knew, from experience, that Sherlock was most likely wearing his damned smug expression, the same he had normally worn in the state of his post-deduction, and it was against what Sherlock must have expected- the shock, yes, but he must have forgotten to expect that John would feel, most predominantly, strong negative emotions- betrayal, with the shock, the sadness, the swirling mass of emotions to emphasize, center at and within the fury that must have implanted itself in him, giving the blond the energy to slug the taller man, in the face, the lower jaw. And again, in his gut. Knee him in the hip, knock him down to size so that the shorter could put him in a headlock, ignoring the struggling.

Oh, he had been waiting quite a while to do that.

"John! Get a hold of yourself-" He was cut off with another punch.

"I have, Sherlock. Now explain yourself."

"In t-"

"Now, Sherlock."

"You changed the locks."

That EARNED him another socking.

"You risked your life.. for what? To prove you were clever? You're just another _idiot_! We could have disproved Moriarty, Sherlock.. And do you know what I went through, because of you? The things people said about you, still say about you? "

"Think rationally, John. Do you really think I hadn't the desire to write you? Every day, my fingers would itch for a pen, a keyboard, just so I could tell you I was alive! Your enthusiasm would have gone straight to my enemies, maybe even the public, and then I'd have really been dead.

"If I hadn't done what I did, when I did, you would have been dead."

"Where were you, Sherlock?" John asked, quiet.

"With Mycroft- to live below the belt! Out of the way! Hidden! But I'd heard all of the news about you, and it kept Mycroft beside himself, keeping me from escaping.

"I wanted to, but they checked in on you too often- it was not only good people, but bad, very, very bad people, if I must further emphasize such in simplicities, that were after me, and were watching you, that read your blog in it's active days. Needless to say, your proclamation this morning left little room for them, apparently, to think revenge their immediate concern. Your initial response was lacking in it's finality. With their eyes turned, most of them were eliminated under my wit, as well as Mycroft's governmental fist. Conclusively, I took it upon myself to grace you with my presence."

"That's impossible."

"What?"

"That's impossible!" The shorter man repeated, not letting his grip up.

"John, I'm here, in the flesh."

"No, you aren't."

"I'm having a lucid conversation with you."

"Just another dream, wouldn't it be?"

"John. Listen to me. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, _must_ be the truth." He reached a hand up to touch John's face, moving, the slackened grip giving Sherlock the needed room to mogate, to readjust himself, to settle his grip on the former soldier's shoulders, careful. "What more could I do to prove it to you?"

Looking up at the brunet, John licked his lips, nervous tick taking over. In an extremely foolish action, the other craned his neck, lips meeting Sherlock's briefly, the other freezing altogether- if this was a dream, which it would probably be, Sherlock would respond uncharacteristically. If not.. Watson probably wouldn't be able to predict that. But Sherlock actually seemed to be waiting for John to pull away, a smile on his face when John dared open the eyes he hadn't known he had closed.

"It took you long enough." He chuckled.

Astonished, John asked, "For what?" He'd just kissed another bloke, and all the man could do was laugh as his feeble proclamation?

The brunet stood, dusting off his trademark coat. "Come, Watson; we must clear my good name. The proof Mycroft has provided me with proves my brother was not of complete disuse, in my stay there." He held out a hand.

Tentative, John took it, scratching his neck in an awkward confusion as Sherlock alerted Ms. Hudson of their leaving, and to put the groceries away, not noting the forgotten cane beside it, nor the smile that had steadily worked it's way up his face.

"I brought you coffee."

"You're back, and you think I want the damnable coffee?"

"You're right, it's gone cold; May I see your phone?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>Entry XXX; xx-x-xx<em>**

_It seems I may have fibbed, in my previous entry; this blog won't be closing for some time more._

_:)_

* * *

><p><em>Until the third season comes out, this is my friggin headcanon for the after. I DON'T CARE HOW CRAPPILY I TRANSCRIBED IT. OKAYIDOBUTILOVEMYDREAMINGMIND. Okay, just ignore this story, and read all of the awesome ones the fanbase REALLY has to offer. ; _;<em>

_I kinda maybe wrote this in about an hour, and I REALLY don't want to go back through it; instead I'll read The Empty House, I want SH back already.. (FANDOM. WE WILL SURVIVE. I SWEAR TO YOU, SINCE SHERLOCK FANDOM IS BEST FANDOM. :'D)_

_Also, I kinda wrote it for Kay; KAAAY, I HOPE YOU LIKE ITTT, MY DEAREST DARLING. (I'll write you that Angsty Iron America, YOU JUST WAIT! x'3 AND DEAR LORD THIS SHER IS OFF. THERE'S A REASON I'M YOUR JOHN. x'| )_

_And I guess I better do some APH stuff, huh.. O:_


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